


The Tosh Detective

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Embarrassed Sherlock, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Protective Lestrade, Soft John Watson, pinup pictures, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Sometimes the best intentions can have the most horrible outcomes, as Sherlock discovers when he gives John a special gift.





	The Tosh Detective

It was always great when there were no new cases to intrude on their Sundays off.

 

Mrs. Hudson had just brought up the Times and tossed it through the flat’s kitchen door, where it landed with a resounding ‘splat’. Upon hearing this, John had rolled out of bed, hair askew and yawning, grabbed a dressing gown (Sherlock’s, since John had gotten to love the feel of the silky fabric against his bare skin, rather than the rasp of his ratty cotton robe), and trudged into the kitchen. There, he had picked up the paper, placed it on the edge of the table, and put on the kettle for tea. Toast was the next order of business and, while he was waiting, he had unfurled the paper and sectioned it out. The crime-reporting sections, international affairs, and classifieds went straight to Sherlock; the sports, local news, health and the rest went to John.

 

Once the tea was properly brewed and the toast buttered or jammed, the morning fare—and paper—were placed on an old tin tray, to be brought into the bedroom for a leisurely morning lie-in. Kisses and cuddles were sure to be on the menu as well, ever since they had begun sharing a bed and bedroom a couple of years before. The Sunday Morning Lie-in had become routine after the wedding, when they were on their ~~sex holiday~~ honeymoon in the Bahamas. Fortunately, Sherlock’s dire sunburn had _not_ become part of that routine but _had_ _been_ the main impetus of it. The poor fellow couldn’t sleep on his back or sides for days, so all he could do that Sunday morning was lie on his stomach and read the paper. Well, other things too, but _very_ carefully.

 

John swung the bedroom door shut with his foot, careful not to jostle the tray overmuch as he did so. He smiled indulgently as he moved to the bed and the sheet-and-comforter-swaddled lump therein. Placing the tray on the foot of the bed, he crawled into the center of the mattress and peeled back a bit of blanket to find a mop of dark curls, which he kissed gently. The lump stirred. Then came a muffled “My lips are down here” from the depths of that mass of bedclothes.

 

John laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I can’t get to ‘em, now, can I?” he teased, taking a swat at what, he supposed, was his husband’s butt. This elicited a grunt and a shimmy from the mass that allowed the dark head to emerge from its cocoon, wincing at the bright morning light.

 

“Would you _please_ close the damned drapes, John?” he croaked, his normally beautiful, deep voice scratchy from sleep. It always took Sherlock a bit to wake up and become what passed for a normal human being in the morning. John sometimes wondered if he wasn’t actually a vampire, a creature of the night that abhorred the brilliant light of day.

 

Eyes closed, face screwed up in disgust, Sherlock emerged from his warm shelter. He reached out one hand blindly and was rewarded by a mug of hot tea—two sugars—and a kiss on the wrist. He pulled the cup to his lips and drank tentatively, slurping a little to cool it down as it passed his dry lips. He grimaced as an eye popped open. “Why do you have to make the tea so bloody hot, John? You know I can’t drink it when it’s this hot. It burns the mucous membranes of my…”

 

John smirked at the nascent tirade. Always the same—Sherlock hated mornings. “I’ll try to change the laws of physics for you next time, love. At what temperature would you _like_ water to boil?”

 

“Don’t be a smartass, John. That’s _my_ job,” Sherlock snipped back. “Just put some cold water in it to cool it down. Jesus, John…” He shook his head in annoyance.

 

John leaned in and kissed a stubbly cheek in appeasement. Before he could withdraw, a long-fingered hand wrapped around the back of his neck, directing his head toward a pair of full, plush lips still hot and sweet from the tea that had just passed through them. Even though they were both in need of a toothbrush, the kiss was soft and lingering, expressing something that neither could describe with words. When their lips reluctantly parted, John opened his eyes and gazed into the prismatic eyes of his lover. It always amazed him how those eyes could change so much, in both color and mood. _I married a chameleon_ , he would think sometimes.

 

“Why are you always such a grump in the morning, Sherlock?” he asked, as he playfully booped the tip of his lover’s nose with his fingertip. As if he didn’t know the answer already.

 

Sherlock wrinkled up his nose. “Stop that,” he groused. “I hate mornings because they start _too fucking_ _early_! What _I_ don’t understand is, how can you be so disgustingly _chipper_?” He leaned forward in an attempt to reach the toast-bearing tray but his hands fell short. “Toast.”

 

“Please.”

 

One prodigious eye-roll later, “Toast. _Pleeeeeeeease_.”

 

A small plate of perfectly-browned toast with butter appeared on the mattress before him. He delicately picked it up by the edges and bit into it gratefully, humming with pleasure. “Your toast is always so much better than mine, and we both use the same toaster. I don’t understand how that works.” Another crunchy bite followed.

 

“Probably because mine is made with love while yours are made with…”

 

“Shut _up_!”

 

John chuckled to himself as he settled back into his propped-up pillows, the front section of the paper in hand.  He took a sip of his tea before setting it on the bed stand to his right. He propped his plate of toast on his stomach and opened the paper. As he read, he nibbled on jam-covered toast, licking his lips and fingers appreciatively.

 

“Stop that. You’re giving me ideas.” Sherlock muttered.

 

“Not my problem, what goes through that head of yours. I’m just innocently eating my toast.” He took another bite, smacking his lips.

 

“Innocence and you make strange bedfellows,” Sherlock shot back.

 

John grinned. “You should know.”

 

Sherlock chortled once he realized what he had said.

 

“I’ve got to hit the loo. I’ll be right back. Where are my sections?” Sherlock asked as he climbed out of his side of the bed, naked as usual. John watched him as he walked, catlike, around the foot of the bed, hardly making a sound on the old wooden floor. He smirked as he noticed that John was watching him closely. “Enjoying the view?”

 

“God, you’re beautiful,” John remarked, his voice warm and sincere, his eyes never leaving his partner’s lithe, graceful form. “That sight never gets old. As far as I’m concerned, you can walk around like that all day, if you want.”

 

Sherlock’s voice drifted out from the en-suite. “I may just do that. As long as no one drops by…”

 

Nodding in approval, a smile adorning his lips, John turned the page of the Times…and froze. The smile faded as his eyes widened in horror. _Good God…how…?_ was all he could think as he saw the pictures that dominated the page in his hand. _No…it can’t be…Oh, fucking bollocks!_

 

What he saw before his disbelieving eyes was worse than anything Moriarty had ever plotted against them. It was deadlier than his ex-wife’s aim. It was a greater betrayal than any of Mycroft’s lies and dubious machinations. It was _almost_ as horrifying as watching Sherlock jump from the roof of St. Barts.

 

There, on the center spread of the Sunday Times, was a set of boudoir pictures featuring a man wearing a purple lace corset with red bows and garters, black fish-net stockings, a purple choker, and red high heels, posed like a provocative pin-up girl.

 

That man was Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

 

>>>***<<<

 

_“HOLY FUCKING HELL!”_

 

John sat up as if galvanized. His plate slid off his stomach and onto the floor with a clatter. All John could do in that moment was stare in panic and dismay, his knuckles clenched white on the edges of the page.

 

“John? Did something happen? Are you all right?” Sherlock’s alarmed voice drifted into the room from the loo.

 

John sucked in a deep breath and replied, “No, I’m…I’m fine, Sherlock. Just dropped a plate, is all.”

 

“Are you sure? You sound strange,” Sherlock responded, accompanied by the sound of running water and a washing of hands. Sherlock was, if nothing else, fastidious in his habits.

 

_Oh, shit, I have to hide this, I have to keep him from seeing it_ , John thought. He glanced about wildly until his eyes alit on his mug of tea. _God, I hate to do this, but…_

 

John snatched up the mug of almost-untouched tea and dumped it unceremoniously on both himself and the newspaper, making sure the offending page was saturated completely and thoroughly. He then crumpled it up and stuffed it into the trash, where they would usually discard any condoms or tissues they used during their lovemaking sessions. John reached under his pillow, where he always kept a “sex flannel”, which they used to keep the bed dry and to clean up with, and started daubing at himself to remove the excess tea.

 

Just in time, too. Sherlock leaned through the door, concern written on his face. “John, what happened?” He saw the overturned mug on the floor and his eyes went round. “Christ, did you get burned, John? Do you need some…”

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, love,” John shot back, raising his hand to cut off Sherlock’s alarmed inquiries. “Just an accident. Tea wasn’t even hot. No need for alarm, sweetheart. In fact,” his agile mind leaped upon a new distraction. “In fact, I think I should take a shower to get this stickiness off me.” He smiled provocatively at his husband while wiggling his eyebrows in a salacious manner. “Would you care to join me?”

 

Sherlock grinned broadly. “Anytime, anywhere, you sexy beast. I’ll run the water.” He winked, then ducked back inside.

 

John sighed in relief. It was only a respite, he knew, but now he had a little time to investigate, to find out what had happened, and how those damned pictures…

 

Then he heard a scream from downstairs. Maybe he didn’t have as much time as he thought…

 

>>>***<<<

 

“You know, you don’t have to do this, Sherlock,” Greg Lestrade observed as Sherlock donned his familiar belstaff and blue scarf. He looked at the ground, shaking his head. “It’s a regular feeding frenzy out there. Every bloody reporter in London and the surrounds is out there, clamoring for a statement.”

 

“Which I am going to give them,” Sherlock replied casually. More casually than he felt, actually. Ever since the publishing of those damned lingerie pictures, their front door had been mobbed by the most insistent lot of…

 

“Bastards,” John muttered as he walked in from the bedroom, settling his oatmeal-colored jumper—one of Sherlock’s favorites—about his hips. “Can’t let this poor sod alone. They’ve been ringing his phone off the hook, his _and_ mine, wanting something they can use to one-up their competition. Fucking idiots,” he muttered as he reached for his own jacket, where it normally hung next to the belstaff on the back of the living room door.

 

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “And where do you think you’re going?”

 

“With you, love. Always with you,” John smirked as he whipped the jacket around his shoulders.

 

Sherlock grabbed the jacket in mid-air. “No!” he snapped, his pale eyes drilling holes into John’s blue ones. “You are _not_ going out there. I will _not_ see you fed to the wolves…”

 

“But you think _I’d_ let them eat _you_ alive without _me_ being there to _defend you_?” John snapped back. “Not a chance in hell, Sherlock. You made me a promise, didn’t you?  I said ‘Don’t go where I can’t follow’, remember? And you agreed!”

 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “This is different, John. You don’t need to be dragged into this…”

 

“What, through the mud, you mean? Because that’s exactly what they’re going to do to you! Those pictures were never supposed to see the light of day _anywhere else_ but here, and yet…”

 

Greg entered the fray. “I thoroughly investigated the photographer. His studio had been broken into and ONLY those photos had been taken. Nothing else. Someone was targeting Sherlock, someone who got wind of what was in that studio!”

 

Sherlock shrugged, nonchalantly. “There’s always _someone_ who wants to discredit me, or, at the very least, cause me discomfort. I don’t _care_ what the general populace thinks of me. If my career wasn’t destroyed when I shot Magnussen, it certainly won’t be destroyed by this.”

 

“Exactly,” John retorted. “And that is why I’m going out there with you. A show of solidarity. I won’t have those rabid blood-suckers out there thinking I don’t stand behind my husband every step of the way!”

 

“John,” Sherlock replied, in a gentle tone of voice, “They will tar you with the same brush they will use on me. You don’t deserve that.” He reached out a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers against John’s cheek ever-so-briefly.

 

John snorted in disbelief. “Oh, like you do? Those pictures were a gift from _you_ to _me_. _No one else_ should have even known they exist.” He finished putting on his jacket and fastening it, then favored his husband with a sweet, indulgent smile. “Love, you have to stop trying to protect me,” he said, his voice soft and reasonable.

 

“Never,” Sherlock whispered back to him. “You are the one thing in my life worth protecting and I will do so ‘til my dying day.”

 

John slid into Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock held him tightly, bestowing a brief but loving kiss on his forehead. Then he looked at Greg.

 

“I’m willing to bet they’re having a fine time of it at the precinct. I know how universally loved I am there,” he quipped dryly as he rested his cheek on John’s forehead.

 

Greg chuckled. “Surprisingly enough, they’ve been very well-behaved on the subject. Anderson has been downright stroppy on the subject, shooting down anyone with the temerity to crack even the slightest joke about it, and Sally—well, Sally said that what goes on behind closed doors is your own business and the people who stole and published those pictures should be hung up by the bollocks, quote unquote.” He grinned. “Since you two got married, you, Sherlock, have calmed down quite a bit. They actually kind of _like_ you now, believe it or not.”

 

John reluctantly pulled away from Sherlock’s embrace and laughed at the thought. “Who would ever think that _I_ could calm down a force of nature like Sherlock Holmes?”

 

A sudden rush of voices, accompanied by a few catcalls, echoed through the drafty front windows. “Come on out, Sherlock! We’re not going away!” someone yelled.

 

“Yeah, let’s see your pretty corset, Sherlock!” another one hollered, accompanied by a chorus of laughter.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg went over to the window and moved the curtain aside just enough to look out. “Okay, detail’s in place. We won’t be having any scenes out there. Stupid gits,” he muttered in disgust.

 

Sherlock shrugged again, more casually than he felt. “They’d be doing the same thing if the Prime Minister had been caught in a negligee. Or if any of Irene Adler’s photos had ever been released to the public. They just want a story—the more salacious, the better.”

 

“Well, they’re not getting one here,” John said adamantly as he headed for the door. “Let’s go beard the lions, Sherlock, and get it over with.”

 

Mouth set in a straight line of determination, Sherlock followed his husband down the stairs, followed closely by Greg Lestrade.

 

As the front door opened, they were struck by an almost-physical barrage of questions.

 

“Hey, Sherlock, are you a cross-dresser?”

 

“Did you ever partake of Irene Adler’s services?”

 

“Do you use rent boys?”

 

Sally Donovan stood off to one side, along with Anderson, Dimmock, and a few others from the local precinct, here for no other reason than to show support for Sherlock in the face of this latest “scandal”. Sally looked totally disgusted, as though all she needed was an excuse to take someone down, hard. Anderson was quietly fuming. Dimmock watched the proceedings with a jaundiced eye, arms crossed over his chest, eyes skimming the crowd for trouble. Greg stood, just behind Sherlock and John, on the front door stoop, “221” emblazoned in gold on the door behind them. Inside, Mrs. Hudson was fretting in her flat, making tea and biscuits for when “her boys” came back inside after being spit-roasted by the press.

 

Sherlock held up his hands for silence as he stepped off the stoop and onto the step below it. Behind him, John glowered at the assembled reporters before turning and whispering something to Greg, who turned and went inside quietly. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press…”

 

“At least some of us _are_ gentlemen! You look more like a lady yourself!” Someone heckled, eliciting derisive laughter from the crowd. Sherlock stopped speaking, his face darkening like a raincloud. He crossed his arms and waited until the false hilarity had died down before continuing.

 

However, whatever he had planned to say never left his lips. Two small, powerful hands settled on his shoulders from behind, giving him a little shake of support. The front door opened and closed behind them.

 

“Ladies of the press, since there are obviously no _gentlemen_ present,” John’s voice rang out, silencing any and all murmuring in the crowd. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes will _not_ be making a statement today…”

 

“John…” Sherlock whispered, urgently, over his shoulder.

 

“Because _I_ will be making the statement,” John continued, in his best Captain Watson voice. It sent a little thrill down Sherlock’s spine. “I think you all know who I am, and if you don’t, then you’ve been living under a rock in Trafalgar Square. My name is Dr. John H. Watson, and I am the partner, confidant, friend, and, above all, _husband_ of Sherlock Holmes, the one and only Consulting Detective in all the world. You are all familiar with his exploits. Indeed, if it weren’t for him, you would all still be at the mercy of professional criminals, blackmailers, and all manner of lawbreakers still unbeknownst to you, since they have not yet been added to the blog. Suffice to say, you all owe a great deal to Mr. Sherlock Holmes…”

 

“Especially a look at ‘is loverly arse!” another person catcalled, but, this time, there was only an uncomfortable murmur in the crowd. Sally moved silently through the crowd, seeking out the obnoxious bloke, until a muffled ‘Uh!’ was heard, along with the snap of handcuffs. No one turned around to watch.

 

“Well, there speaks the ignorant,” John said, his brows drawn in disapproval, the expression on his face daring anyone else to speak. No one took him up on the offer. He raised his military-trained voice again. “You are all here because of the pictures published in the Times on Sunday.” He felt Sherlock shift nervously. He squeezed his shoulders as if to say _Trust_ _Me._   “At least someone had the good sense to put them in the middle spread. They deserved it. The photographer did a masterful job. Here, see for yourselves!”

 

With that, John took the full-color pictures from Greg’s hand and threw them at the reporter’s and photographer’s feet. The videographers, obviously filming live, followed the fluttering pages to the street, where they landed face up. Sherlock started forward but John stopped him.

 

“John, those are for _you_ , not them!” he whispered over his shoulder in protest, making ‘them’ sound like an oath.

 

“Trust me, love. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you,” John whispered back.

 

“Never even crossed my mind, John,” Sherlock whispered again, and John knew that his name, on Sherlock’s lips, was the greatest endearment of which his husband was capable. “They just don’t deserve them.”

 

John smiled, knowing he had Sherlock’s unwavering support and belief. He looked out at the silent crowd, which had actually taken a step backwards when the pictures had fallen, leaflike, down to the pavement. No one moved to pick them up. They just stared.

 

Lying on the ground were three large photos of one Sherlock Holmes, dressed in a corset and stockings, posing with his arms stretched over his head, body taut, face toward the camera. His eyes were so expressive that those closest to the shots were mesmerized by them. The graceful posture, the ballet-like curve of his legs, the arch of his back were sublime. Finally, one of the female reporters picked up the full-body shot and looked at it, _really looked_. Others peered over her shoulder.

 

“That…is really a beautiful shot,” she said, and others concurred.

 

“Yes, it is,” John agreed, his voice soft and affectionate. “It was taken as an anniversary gift for me. My husband took a chance that I might like it, seeing him like that. And he was right. I love them.” Then his voice grew louder and harsher. “But I don’t love them enough that I’m willing to see _my_ _husband_ —this brilliant, exceptional man standing before me—raked over the coals because he wanted to do something that he thought would make _me_ happy. So here,” he gestured to the glossies spread on the ground, “Please, take them. They’re better shots than what’s in the paper, anyway. Copy them. Spread them around, if you like. I don’t care. Just _leave my husband alone_! After all he’s done for this country and its people, he doesn’t deserve your ridicule. And anyone who decides, after this, to mock my husband will have to deal with _me_ , and I will _not_ put up with anyone’s shite!”

 

As he took a breath, John felt a hand squeeze his where it lay on Sherlock’s shoulder. He spared a glance down and saw Sherlock’s black-gloved hand resting over one of his. He leaned in surreptitiously and planted a kiss into the back of that glorious mane of dark, curly hair and heard a quiet chuff of laughter in return. John continued.

 

 “If anyone should feel ashamed, it should be the person who stole these photos and sold them to the press, as well as the newspaper editor who thought it was a great idea to publish what are, clearly, _personal_ pictures for public consumption, for _ratings_! _Those_ are the people who should be embarrassed. Personally, I think my husband is _incredibly_ _hot_ in those pictures and I feel _incredibly_ _lucky_ to have _married_ this man!”

 

The female reporter, who was still holding the photo, stepped forward and picked up the other two, still lying on the ground. She looked up at Sherlock and John, where he was visible behind one shoulder, and said, “Would you mind giving me the name of the photographer? I’d love to have him take some for my husband!”

 

“Yes, me, too!” called out another one.

 

“Hey, Tommy, you should try it! You’d look great in a feather boa!” another gibed one of the newsman, who blushed furiously. A new wave of laughter went up but, this time, it was not mocking. There was a sense of relief, as if someone had just carted a truckload of manure out of the street and everyone could breathe again. Someone yelled, “Sherlock!” and, as the detective looked in that direction, a picture was taken, which was of John planting another kiss, this time to his husband’s temple, and of Sherlock wearing a rare smile in response.

 

The female reporter handed the, thankfully, undamaged pictures to Sherlock and smiled up at him before turning and saying, to her crew, “Okay, guys, let’s leave these folks alone. No story here!” and herding them away.

 

When some of the others refused to budge, John announced, “Well, you all can stand out here freezing your bollocks off, but, as for me, I’m taking my incredibly sexy husband back to bed! Toodles!”  He waved casually and steered Sherlock in through the front door and shut it emphatically. Greg stayed outside to supervise the dispersion of the crowd, along with his detail. Anderson was grinning like an idiot and Dimmock commented, matter-of-factly, “I think he handled that rather well.”

 

Greg grinned. “Never, but _never_ , threaten Sherlock Holmes in front of John Watson. Not if you value your life!” Then he went off, scattering the stragglers as he strode toward his car.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Once inside, John and Sherlock were met by a deeply-relieved Mrs. Hudson, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits.

 

“Oh, dear, I’m so glad things went well! You were absolutely splendid, John! The way you stood up for your man!” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. John smiled and blushed at the same time. “Now, come along and have some tea, dears. Oh, and, by the way, Sherlock,” she said as she stopped for a moment on the stairs and turned to look down at him, “You look so lovely in purple. You should wear it much more often!” Then she turned and made her way upstairs to the flat.

 

John looked at Sherlock and laughed. It was seldom he _ever_ turned quite that shade of pink.

 

“Wait, how did she know what you said? She was in here,” he asked.

 

“Live-streaming cameras,” John said, as he pushed Sherlock up the stairs. “I noticed them right off. That’s why I took over. Didn’t want them re-editing you to make it even _more_ embarrassing. As things stand right now, they’ll think twice before coming after you again. Right now, they look like a right bunch of clowns.”

 

“You were marvelous, John,” Sherlock stopped on the landing to turn and wrap his arms around his husband, lifting him up off the floor to the next step. He smiled, bestowing a sweet kiss on John’s lips. “My hero,” he teased before letting him go.

 

As Sherlock walked away, John’s phone rang. He stopped to read the message, his eyes growing a bit misty at the words he saw there.

 

>Good job, John. Well done. James S.<


End file.
